


Horrid Memories with Conceited Wings

by Fudgyokra



Series: Kinktober 2019 [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (Yes Really), Begging, Humor, M/M, Medical Kink, Object Insertion, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sounding, Thomas comes to Earth-0, Timeline Shenanigans, a BruDick pining fic masquerading as a kink fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 04:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: The lips at his lobe move up to the shell and whisper, “You ought to belong to me."





	Horrid Memories with Conceited Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Writing tonally humorous non-con really is a trip, especially when it involves Owlman. Especially especially when I’ve never read an Earth-3 comic in my life.
> 
> Title from Marilyn Manson’s “Wight Spider.”
> 
> Day 2: Ass Worship | Begging* | Medical play* | Watersports

Dick remembers being struck in the back of the head during patrol, but not much else. From then to now, something must have gone freakishly wrong to put him in the situation he’s currently in, even if he can’t say for certain what that something would be. Could have been user error, since he’d wandered willingly into stranger clutches before on a bat-shit crazy kind of night like tonight, but he puts his money on timeline shenanigans. He hopes to sneak off and call it a day before he can figure out exactly how twisted things have gotten this time because, truthfully, he doesn’t want to know.

Exhibit A for why he’s not exactly the most curious of his location is that he’s strapped to an operating table, so that makes one bigger fish to fry than finding his way home. Exhibit B...well, that one’s a whole shark.

A man stands before him, studying him in ominous silence. He looks familiar, and by the time Dick’s vision stops fuzzing at the edges he realizes it’s because the man is Thomas Wayne Junior, the creep from their last multiverse excursion, which ended about as well as one could expect when Bruce found out his alternate-dimension twin brother is ostensibly a psychopath.

“Oh, boy,” Dick says, running on an instinct he knows is bad purely because he can’t help but mock the man who wishes he had half of what Bruce did. “I had loads of fun last time we did this, but I’m kinda all funned out today, if you know what I mean.”

Thomas smiles, and it’s so, _so_ creepy. All teeth, no mirth.

“We’ve never done anything like what I’m about to do to you, son.”

That doesn’t sound good. Dick purses his lips and tests the bonds on his arms as if he hasn’t tried that already. He’s been spread-eagle on this table for what his aching body suggests is the better part of an hour, and the realization brings a hundred other questions along with it, like: How long was he out? Worse: How long has Thomas been watching him?

“Got any other spooky anecdotes?" he asks. "I could use a bedtime story if you’re gonna bore me to sleep.” He only gets a hum in response.

While he attempts to dislocate his thumb and slip one wrist free of its strap, Thomas wheels over a medical cart full of supplies and kicks the stand down to hold it in place beside the table, close enough where Dick can’t see exactly what is resting on top. Abruptly, a scalpel is slammed into the space between his thumb and forefinger, and Thomas snarls a nasty, “Try that again and I’ll save you the trouble by cutting it off.”

Dick knows he means the thumb. Still, he can’t stop himself from licking his lips—which, inconveniently, have gone quite dry—and answering, “The strap? ‘Cause that’d sure help a fella out.”

A fist connects with his cheek, hard, but the searing pain that blooms there pales in comparison to the thump of his head colliding with the metal table. He tastes blood in his mouth, either from biting his cheek or from Thomas cracking a tooth. Maybe both. With a grunt, he runs his tongue over his teeth, one by one, and right as he ascertains he’s not missing part or all of any of them, a hand snatches him by his aching jaw and forces him to look up again.

“I don’t want to hurt you, boy,” Thomas lies, leaning in as if to inspect the damage he has dealt, “but if you keep running your mouth, I may just sew it shut.”

Dick starts to say _I liked the idea of you cutting off my thumb better,_ but then decides not to tempt fate further and stubbornly snaps his lips shut. Thomas pats his cheek as if in reward for obeying, sending two more stabs of pain through bruised skin, and then the hand slips away to join his other at the supply cart.

He comes back brandishing two rods, one between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, and Dick knows what they are only due to a bored evening of porn-surfing that got out of hand god knows how many years ago. “Whoa—” _Buy a guy dinner first—_ “don’t even think about coming near me with those.”

“I won’t think about it.” Thomas says it in such a matter-of-fact voice that Dick predicts his next words being, “I’ll just doit.”

In his left hand, the shiny steel sounding rod looks, for all intents and purposes, like a needle; the one in his right is something closer to a goddamn pencil. Dick doesn’t want either of them anywhere near Dick junior. “I’m going to be kind,” Thomas says, “and let you choose how your examination begins.”

Dick glares. “I’m perfectly healthy, thank you.”

“Any prospective belonging of mine must be up to par.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I don’t want to belong to you, then.”

Thomas clicks his tongue, sets the rods back on the cart, and returns with the scalpel. This time the blade goes for the area between Dick’s legs, and he’s ashamed to say he gasps when it slices clean through the fabric there, easier than through skin. Thomas’s hands follow, large and rough once the gloves come off, tearing his suit open in a giant mockery of a gash. Dick doesn’t appreciate the imagery any more than he appreciates being naked from navel to…more personal parts of him.

“You really ought to wear a cup,” Thomas says, unhelpfully. Dick is too busy reeling to snap about how it’s not really feasible for flexible movement. “Or perhaps you like for this kind of thing to be easy.” He doesn’t know why, but the implication makes his face burn, especially once it’s followed by, “I’ll bet that was Batman’s idea, wasn’t it?”

Dick opens his mouth again, but his tongue feels heavy, too big for the words he wants to spit at this vile man. Nothing he could say would keep Thomas from cupping his soft length in hand, anyway, and he tries to make himself believe that’s the reason he tightly purses his lips and turns his face away, cheek to the table as if it could ground him. He really needs to get out of here.

When Thomas begins methodically working lubricant along one of the sounds—the fucking _pencil,_ Dick thinks with a scowl—he starts once more on working his thumbs for escape. Erroneously, he thinks the man would be too busy to notice, but he’s proven wrong when the rounded tip of the sound presses against him and Thomas says, deceptively softly, “What did I tell you about trying to escape, son?”

Stupidly, the disappointed tone worms its way beneath Dick’s skin, if only because that voice is so close to Bruce’s. It’s with mighty effort he keeps his eyes trained on Thomas’s mask, because if he can stare at those goggles and prove to himself it’s _not_ Bruce, then perhaps the suspicious skittering of his heart will cease.

But then, of course, as if he’s reading Dick’s mind, Thomas reaches back and tugs the cowl down, goggles and all. Dick closes his eyes.

“I told you I was going to let you choose.” He slides the tip of the sound past the slit, pressing against Dick’s urethra with intent. “If you want to start smaller, all you have to do is ask.”

He’s going to have to ask. This one would split him in half. He knows he’s going to have to look Bruce—Thomas, _Thomas_—in the face and beg for it. It’s going to be humiliating, and Dick hates the thrill of the burn in his cheeks, which creeps down his neck, his chest. He knows he shudders when he opens his eyes again and answers through gritted teeth, “I want the other one.”

“That isn’t asking.” Thomas’s eerie grin is back, but it looks more natural without the cowl. Now it’s all stubble and frown lines and—

Dick swallows around a lump in his throat, flicks his eyes around the room to build himself up. “Can I have the other one?”

“‘Can I have the other one’ what?”

Now he was practically hissing. “_Please._”

“Very good.”

While Thomas slicks up the other rod, Dick forces himself to ignore the shame and guilt crawling across his flesh and redoubles his efforts to get free. If he can just slip out before anything is forced inside him, he will count this a success, despite the mental taxation he’s going to have to deal with after the fact.

Thomas leans over him, close enough for Dick to feel the heat of his body through the half of the suit that’s still completely on, and cradles his cock as if he’s really trying not to hurt him. Examination, indeed. The worst part is, past the initial discomfort of its entrance, the sound feels sinfully good, like the assault on places previously untouched could make Dick heel like a damn dog. Next thing he knows he’s gonna get off to having his teeth pulled or some shit.

He makes the mistake of looking up, and he changes his mind about the sensation being the worst part. Objectively, the fact that Thomas has to be so handsome, so focused, and _looking right back at him_ is definitely the winner. The shame continues to bite him, nipping at tender parts of his psyche.

“You’re doing well.” Thomas’s praises light him up like gasoline.

Dick’s toes curl the second the sound hits his prostate, and from there on, the only thing more humiliating than the way he bodily shivers is the moan that comes after. The almost-pleasure keeping him on edge for the next several seconds as Thomas fiddles with more tools is grueling. Dick is too distracted to try for escape this time; another blow to his ego.

He doesn’t see the next item because he squeezes his eyes closed, but he hears the menacing clack it makes and instinctively knows. He’s been inside the gynecology clinic, thank-you-very-much. He wasn’t as bad of a boyfriend as Barbara claims he was back then.

“Please, don’t,” he mumbles, regretting it as soon as it’s spoken.

Thomas’s knuckles brush gingerly across his bruised cheek, and Dick flinches like the touch hurts. “What kind of doctor would I be if I wasn’t thorough?”

A good one. A _normal _one. Dick holds his tongue for as long as it takes Thomas to press the speculum against his ass and make him jump. By then he couldn’t find it in him to crack jokes, but he does eke out an annoyingly breathless, “Bastard.”

Thomas chuckles, and that’s creepier than his smile. “You know what you have to ask for, my boy.”

“For you not to call me that.”

“Too distracting?” The speculum presses a centimeter inside. Dick’s hips arch trying to escape the intrusion. His nose scrunches as he clings to the last remaining seconds of what it’s like to have pride. “Or,” Thomas says, pushing it in a bit further, “too familiar?”

“Please,” he says, and his voice comes out as if he'd gargled nails, “not dry.”

“So, you’d rather this feel good than get it over with.” Thomas sounds proud. It makes Dick sick to his stomach. “Interesting choice. Makes you wonder how often Batman gives you a proper check-up.”

Thomas doesn’t wait for the lubricant to get warm before shoving two fingers inside him, and Dick makes a sound he realizes a second later is a sob. Every movement jostles the sound still sticking up lewdly past the tip of his cock, even once it fills out and stands at attention like the traitorous bastard it is.

“Or does he not? I would hate to think he isn’t taking care of you.”

“Please.”

“Does he make you do it yourself? Leave you to do all the hard work?”

“_Don’t._”

“Alone in your bed, wishing he’d just—”

“Please, _please,_ put it in.” _It’s just to get him to stop talking, it’s just to get him to stop—_

“—stop being such a prude and _fuck_ you like you want him to.”

Thomas leans in and bites down on Dick’s earlobe as he withdraws his fingers. Dick's own are digging into the palms of his hands, leaving nail marks behind, and when the lube-covered speculum slips the first inch inside his body, he takes an audible breath. The lips at his lobe move up to the shell and whisper, “You ought to belong to me,” in a gravelly tone that shoots straight to his cock, leaking and bobbing where Thomas’s free hand finds it and strokes.

Dick’s breathing is absolutely ragged. He’s sure he’s going to a special kind of hell for special kinds of freaks when the speculum settles in where it should be and he only sobs another desperate, “_Please._”

The plastic device spreads open with the same horrible clacking sound from before, and even though it doesn’t hurt, Dick grits his teeth at the sensation of being forcibly pulled apart. The stress on his clenched jaw makes it ache, so he tries to focus on that instead of the things that feel good when they shouldn’t, like Thomas’s wet fingers probing around inside him again, this time free to rub along Dick’s walls like he’s well and truly trying to perform an evaluation.

“You’re almost done,” Thomas says, professionally detached, save for the slightest hitch in breath. “Now, tell me, how does this feel?”

“Feels like you’re a fucking bas—” Fingers jab pointedly against his prostate, adding more pressure than was already present and handily taking Dick’s insult from a coherent string of words to something more closely resembling a shriek. After this is over, he decides he’s going to crawl into the sewers and live there for a while without ever coming out.

“Tell me how it feels,” Thomas says, now with a demanding edge to his voice that makes Dick go rigid. The stubble on the man’s chin brushes Dick’s jaw when he leans in to growl, and, abruptly, he swears his bodily temperature skyrockets.

Thomas hooks his fingers and uses his other hand to slide the sound out, perhaps only a centimeter or two, before pressing it back in and holding it down. Another sob tears itself from Dick’s throat, and then: “_God,_yes! More...”

He doesn’t actually take much more before he cums all over Thomas’s fist, the flex of his hips and thighs the only other indication as he strains to hold still for it. He’d really rather not become a human kebab today.

Thomas rubs the pads of his fingers around the sensitive gland instead of directly atop it when he pulls back to watch Dick embarrass himself with a moan, and the extra stimulation makes him twitch, both in the fingers and other, more noticeable places. “Bruce, don’t…”

He catches himself too late. The snarl Thomas gets on his face suggests that Dick’s internal prayer for him not to have heard _might_ have gone unanswered. He has a feeling he’s not leaving any time soon.

“You’re not leaving any time soon,” Thomas says, and Dick groans as his head thumps back on the table, “so I have plenty more time to make you mine.”

Dick turns his face, hiding it the best he could against his arm when Thomas cranks the speculum open further and brandishes something that looks suspiciously like a thermometer. Instead of learning his lesson, he huffs a breathless laugh and jokes, “Promises, promises.”

The next thing he gives is a scream, and the last coherent thought he has before passing out is that he rather wishes Thomas had sewn his stupid mouth shut, after all.


End file.
